


Color Coded Care

by bummerang



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Mild Blood and Injury, Mutual Pining, Tumblr Prompt, colored ink stain, mutual misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bummerang/pseuds/bummerang
Summary: While Ozpin is doing a dubious patch job on Qrow, he notices four distinctly colorful marks on his back.Written for Day 2 of rwbyrarepairweek on Tumblr.





	Color Coded Care

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of rwbyrarepairweek: Soulmate AU
> 
> The soulmate mechanic is from [this Tumblr post](https://macnoodle.tumblr.com/post/176710483199/zaiyofics-the-ghost-of-keith-kogane)~

As a rule, Ozpin doesn't exist between the twilight hours of two and six. If he's only going to have four hours of fitful sleep most nights, he'd prefer to have them largely uninterrupted. But he'll reluctantly wake for certain things. Usually, these things are the rhythmically banging cymbals he's installed as Glynda's ringtone.

Not so usually—

“That's _rude,_ ” Qrow says when Ozpin rips off the back of his shirt.

Well. Ripping implies effort. It technically isn't ripping if it simply came apart in his hand. Ozpin holds up the bloodstained pieces of cloth with a raised eyebrow.

“At least give a guy a drink before you strip him,” Qrow says, tearing off the rest of his shirt and tossing it carelessly into the sink.

Four in the morning, and Ozpin is about to perform mildly alarming first aid in his bathtub. Something about it just doesn't seem sanitary even as he pours an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol over Qrow's wounds, three long gashes nearly shoulder to shoulder courtesy of an irate Beowolf. Clean and shallow cuts, and no longer bleeding thanks to his aura finally kicking in and doing its job. Not that it does anything for the awful mess already on his back, and the walls, and on Ozpin—

Of all the people on the planet, Ozpin is no stranger to blood. But it's a little unsettling to see so much of it on Qrow.

It looks worse than it is. He knows this.

But still.

“I'm certain a nurse could do this with more efficiency,” he says, debating the merit of forcing Qrow on a sabbatical against the flack he will most certainly receive when the idiot man returns.

“Nah, I'm great here. You've got pretty bathroom tiles.”

The sarcasm drips. It would be extraordinarily difficult to go wrong with plain white ceramic. “I think the blood loss is getting to you.”

“Would be fixed with a drink,” Qrow says, trying to stand, but Ozpin's grip on his shoulder is firm.

“You're not walking out there like this. I prefer my carpet free of bloodstains.” Instead, _he_ stands. He has slippers at the very least.

“Really?” Qrow calls from behind him, his voice resonating slightly off the bathroom walls. “I like mine with. Gives it character.”

Ozpin rolls his eyes as he returns with half a bottle of whiskey, handing it straight to Qrow without a glass. Qrow wastes no time, flicking off the cap and taking a hefty swig. He nudges the bottle at Ozpin, looking up at him expectantly.

Ozpin dithers briefly before accepting it, taking a long drink in an effort to settle something unpleasant in his gut at the sight of Qrow so wrecked.

Qrow looks him up and down, frowning. “Uh. You're, um—sorry about your pajamas.”

Ozpin blinks, then looks down at the splotches of blood on the silk. “Don't be. They were missing character.” As Qrow snickers, Ozpin steps back into the tub and takes him by the shoulders, encouraging him to sit straighter. He tries not to think about the ripple of tense muscle beneath his fingers, or even the fact that Qrow is sitting in front of him without a shirt.

Or the four colorful marks just beneath his right shoulder blade. The colors shift and whirl, a disorienting mix of bright and neutral, never still and difficult to focus upon.

They _have_ grown close in these eight years. More than is advisable, more than Ozpin is used to—both in this life and most of those previous—but Qrow has always been persuasive, and he doesn't bestow his friendship lightly.

But this is...well. An ink stain is an intensely personal thing. Perhaps the most personal. It's been said that the stain represents something missing in you, and you can't be whole until you find someone to share what you lack, to fill that empty void with color.

It's an idea garbled and warped, but the gods took the truth with them when they abandoned the world. He doesn't remember any of it (and he doubts Salem would).

Ozpin lingers briefly on the marks, but he doesn't wonder about the person. It isn't his place. But he thinks they're lucky, and hopes they're deserving.

And he's glad for Qrow. That of everything he's lost, at least this isn't one of them.

“ _Ow,_ son of a—bag of _dicks_ —”

“This was your idea,” Ozpin says with some exasperation. He pauses his stitching, resting his arms against Qrow's back. “It isn't too late to go to a hospital. They have painkillers.”

Predictably, Qrow shakes his head. “If I'm gonna get stabbed a million times by a tiny needle, I might as well be stabbed by someone I actually like.”

“That is awful logic.”

“My logic is impeccable.”

It's Ozpin's turn to shake his head. “You won't like me very much for the next hour.”

“Try me.”

He does, quite a bit. It's difficult, going through every stitch between Qrow's hissing and twitching. He tries to keep Qrow occupied by having him talk about his small nieces. It mostly works, even though his stories end up interspersed with more of his imaginative cursing. Qrow could go on and on about his nieces. It's actually quite adorable, though Qrow would probably steal his coffee if he dared mention it.

Ozpin knows he should have pushed Qrow to go to the hospital. But he never has been able to bring himself to do it. Partly, he empathizes too much with Qrow's aversion. Ozpin has never been fond of them either. He even shares Qrow's unfortunate tendency to escape them. Besides, Qrow knows his own limits. Everything he comes to Ozpin for has been relatively minor. This time is the worst yet, and it is far from the worst Qrow has ever had.

And the other part, well—Qrow trusts him. Inexplicably and, Ozpin suspects, completely. And for all that it is difficult to earn Qrow's friendship, his trust is the real test. Less hoops and favors, and more a simple willingness to listen. To accept.

Perhaps it isn't simple after all, if this is how Qrow gauges his confidence in a person.

But, well—maybe Ozpin shares some of this with him, too.

He's careful with the towel, dabbing gently around the wounds. The stitches are neat, but if Qrow insists on self-care, the scarring may still be significant. “Do you hate me yet?” he says, only half-jokingly as he tapes down the gauze, but he notes that Qrow has already finished the whiskey.

“Never,” Qrow says. “You wasted the good stuff on me. Who could hate that?” Before Ozpin can think of a reply, Qrow stands—and sways. “Oh. Cool. Everything's movin'.”

Ozpin puts a hand around his arm to keep him steady, and he leads them back to the bedroom where he nudges Qrow to sit on the bed.

“Gonna take advantage of me?” Qrow says, smiling lazily, his words slightly uneven.

 _I think I already do._ “You should rest a while.”

“I'm fine.” But Qrow makes no real attempt at protest when Ozpin coaxes him into lying down on his stomach.

Ozpin pulls the thin blanket over him, well below the wounds. “I'm sure you are. But I would rest easier knowing you're fine where I can observe you being so.”

“I thought you didn't want blood everywhere,” Qrow mumbles, closing his eyes.

“My sheets could use character.”

Qrow makes some kind of reply that is instantly lost into the pillow. But it doesn't matter. He's snoring as soon as Ozpin turns off the lamp.

\---

Five in the afternoon usually sees the cafeteria deserted except for a few of the cooks. It's the work of a moment to slip into the industrial refrigerator, nick a pudding cup, and sidle out the back.

Chocolate pudding _is_ technically food. Glynda will judge him, but Glynda judges everyone.

It's a mild indulgence, something to curb the lack of sleep. Thankfully, that's really all it is. He thinks he should perhaps be a little alarmed by how efficient Qrow is at removing evidence. When he awoke, it was to find his bathroom eerily spotless and his sheets changed. Not a single drop of blood anywhere to indicate their foolishness.

He doesn't expect to see Qrow for at least two weeks. He'd ordered it in fact (through scroll text, because distance lessens the whining), although insubordination is one of Qrow's incurable traits. Still, as much as Qrow never does well with downtime, Ozpin hopes he'll take the opportunity to rest. Visit his family. Not get himself injured again for a good long while. That sort of thing.

“ _Oz.”_

Or not.

Ozpin whips around—and Qrow is _right there_ in front of him, face inches from his own. “Er.”

“We need to talk.”

Ozpin is _busy_ , so very busy wondering what is so important that they need to speak now; the incongruity of seeing Qrow in a school hallway after all these years; working out the logistics of someone being able to get so close without him taking notice. It takes a moment for his poor brain to register the intensity in Qrow's eyes.

“Er,” he repeats, because he hasn't had his pudding yet and dealing with Qrow like this without any sustenance is too cruel.

Fortunately, Qrow must think that as some sort of affirmative, because he takes Ozpin by the arm and leads him past the small pockets of confused students until they come upon an empty hallway.

“This is the opposite direction of my office.”

“It'll be quick,” Qrow says curtly, and Ozpin feels a pit of dread growing. “Figured at least one of us should do this in person. I'll make it easy for you. I quit.”

Ozpin goes still.

In the back of his mind, he wonders how high the pile has become. He's always known it was only a matter of time. Raven leaving didn't do it, and Summer—but Ozpin isn't lacking for faults, and he's always making lasting mistakes. Eventually, there had to be something insurmountable or irreparable that would finally drive Qrow away.

It almost doesn't matter what it is. There's so much.

“You know what, forget quick. I don't know. I don't.” He stares Ozpin down, and it's—Ozpin doesn't know what it is. He's never seen Qrow like this before. “You—you didn't say anything,” Qrow says, voice tight with some strained, unidentifiable emotion. “I had to find out from Tai. Do you—you don't _not_ tell someone you colored their fucking stain—“

_What._

“—especially when there isn't supposed to be one.”

Ozpin stares, frozen.

“It's—full circle or some shit,” Qrow says with a mirthless little laugh. “Tai told me then, too. It was years ago, we were in the gym showers, and he just said it was gone and—I didn't get it. Because this is important, right? But my soulmate died, and someone else had to tell me.” He swallows visibly, looking haunted. “They died and I didn't even know it.”

He feels something cold spread in his chest. “Qrow—“

Footsteps and laughter echo suddenly, drawing close to their corridor. Without thinking, Ozpin grabs Qrow by the arm and drags him through the nearest door—and hits his head against the low shelf of the supply closet. He feels Qrow immediately lean up to him, pressing a hand against his mouth to muffle his moan as they wait for the students to pass.

The proximity is unbearable. Ozpin wishes he'd knocked himself out instead.

“I heard that,” Qrow says, sounding tentative as he steps back. The lights come on a second later, revealing the true clutter of the tiny space around them. Qrow looks as hesitant as he sounds, his hand still on the light switch, the earlier anger forgotten for the moment. He gestures at the shelf, and the obvious indentation on the edge. “I think you came out the winner, though.”

Ozpin feels the beginnings of a headache, but he's sure it has nothing to do with the shelf. He slides down onto a bucket, looking up at Qrow with a sickly mixture of wonder and terror in his gut.

Qrow crosses his arms, leans against the opposite wall. He looks tired, resigned. “Look, I know I'm not exactly ideal—that none of this is ideal. I'm guessing you wanted to take some time to work it out in your own way, but did you really think I wouldn't find out before I got back? It's like, smack dab right there. It's _rainbow_. It _moves_.”

“Your opinion of me must indeed be quite poor. I'm not certain which is more disappointing: that you think I would keep something like this from you, or that I would do so in such a shoddy manner.” Ozpin smiles, but there's nothing in it except bone-deep fatigue. “Qrow, your mark was already colored when I saw it.”

Qrow freezes.

“I'd assumed—obviously incorrectly—you'd already found your soulmate, so there seemed to be nothing that was in my place to say.” He rubs his fingertips in contemplation, remembers the sticky feeling of drying blood. “There are four marks on your back. They taper downwards, don't they?” He'd accidentally dragged his fingers over skin, not expecting the shreds of cloth to give way. He hadn't thought anything of it, though. There was nothing there to think about.

“You didn't know,” Qrow says, dropping onto a box as if the realization weighs him down. “You didn't send me away on purpose.”

Ozpin sighs. “I wasn't sending you _away_. I thought you needed the rest. Because you're injured.”

“Oh. Cool.” Qrow slumps over, elbows on his knees. “Uh. I'm feeling like a pretty big dumbass right now.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Of all the possible people in the world, and it had to be someone who already matters, who has been here the whole time.

And he'd already ruined it before it ever started.

“So, you're obviously not dead,” Qrow says, gesturing at him up and down as if to prove he isn't. “But my mark definitely hasn't been there up until last night.”

Ozpin fidgets with his sleeve and hopes it isn't obvious. It should be easy to explain—as easy as it had been to _do_ —but he still has to take a moment to find the words. “Ten years ago, I removed my ink stain with magic. It's common practice for...new incarnations. Meant to make things easier on all parties involved. It was discovered early on that removing a mark with magic is actually quite simple, but the unintended side effect is the removal of the corresponding stain on the other person.”

His predecessor hadn't believed in coddling. He'd been crass and loud, and disparagement as motivator was the core of his life's philosophy—but, once, he had been...not exactly kind, perhaps. But a little gentler.

_Just a little magic and it's gone. It won't hurt at all. They'll mourn, probably, but mourning is temporary._

“Early in the—inheritance process—my predecessor encouraged me to remove it just as everyone else who came before had done. But I did not. I was stubborn. Selfish.” He couldn't fathom erasing his ink stain when it was one of the few things he had left of himself, and it couldn't be right to erase his soulmate's by extension. But he didn't know then how heavily it would weigh, knowing he couldn't in good conscience do anything with it.

“But you came around.”

Ozpin nods. “Eventually, I came to accept it simply couldn't work. It wouldn't be right to place the burden of my curse on someone else, nor to shackle them when they could have a chance to find real happiness elsewhere. Removing their mark is cruel, but this way they're free.”

“But that's not just on _you_ ,” Qrow says, agitated. “This shit works both ways. You just—you assumed they wouldn't understand. That I—“ He stops abruptly, looking stricken.

And that's it now, isn't it? This isn't a hypothetical person anymore. This is Qrow.

“Understanding is one thing,” Ozpin says, low and soft, “but to have to accept that your soulmate is not exactly the same person they once were—and isn't really, in fact, a single cohesive person anymore—it isn't fair to put that on anyone.”

“Maybe not. I'm not saying I don't get where you're coming from, Oz, I just—“ Qrow's gaze is steady. Sure. “ _I_ would've liked the choice.”

Ozpin looks away.

“I think we've both hit peak stupid today,” Qrow says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm not too sure what we should do from here.”

The uncertainty is somehow more unnerving than the anger.

Ozpin swallows hard, and decides. Even if Qrow wants nothing to do with him after this, he should at least make sure there isn't anything more to question. “I believe I owe you this much, at least.” He shrugs off his suit jacket and rolls up the right sleeve of his shirt. And then, because he's already fully in on this train of foolishness, and because he's never stopped being selfish— “For what it's worth, you were wrong earlier. It's true that these circumstances aren't ideal, but— _you_ are very much so. You've always been.”

Qrow's eyes widen, but Ozpin ducks his gaze to his arm before he loses his nerve.

Thinking about it, Qrow is rather partial to dragging him around. And it is a particular pattern. Always showing up with an abrupt greeting, always taking him by the arm, and never telling him exactly where they're going. Ozpin will often roll his eyes and make protests, but they mean absolutely nothing when he's allowing Qrow to pull him away from his desk. He can't admit it, but he likes being led around by Qrow. It puts him inexplicably at ease, and there is something about the way Qrow always turns back to look at him that settles warm in Ozpin's chest.

Before now, Ozpin was once inclined to think it was some distasteful cosmic joke. He can't afford to have a soulmate, and it can't _possibly_ be the person he's somehow grown the closest to in lifetimes, but certainly, let's have his unrequited crush consistently take him by the arm where his mark used to be.

But perhaps some unconscious part of Qrow has always known. Maybe this is the real joke.

He presents his forearm—unmarked, no sign of telltale ink—to Qrow, and waits. To Ozpin's surprise, however, Qrow takes it immediately with his left hand, and instead of letting go, slides it down to loosely hold Ozpin's wrist. Together, they watch pale skin bloom into an array of twisting, searing color, in the shape of a hand.

Once, he thinks he would have been overwhelmed. But all he feels now is resignation.

“I'm sorry,” he says, not quite able to look at Qrow. “I never meant—“

Qrow kisses him, and Ozpin instantly loses whatever it is he didn't mean.

“I looked at mine in the mirror for a while,” Qrow says, pulling back and smiling slightly, gently thumbing over the swirling red parts of Ozpin's mark. “They shift more green than anything else. It's not my color, but I think I can live with it.”

Ozpin's brain is too busy shutting down to form much thought. “I had a speech prepared,” he says, confused, torn between the compulsion to come up with a new speech and the enduring impression of Qrow's lips on his own.

“Yeah? Was it gonna be something I wouldn't have liked?”

“Judging by your reaction thus far, it's possible. I have completely forgotten.”

“Good of you to forget, then.” And then Ozpin's brain truly gives up on everything when Qrow cups his cheek and leans in again, pushing him against the wall as their lips meet. Lingering, soft.

“Er.”

“That better be a good 'er',” Qrow says.

“You're taking to this very quickly,” Ozpin mutters, a little dazed, a little hopeful, and altogether not quite ready to believe this isn't a fever dream when literally five minutes ago he thought he'd ruined everything.

Qrow's hand is still on his cheek. He may never wash his face again.

“Gotta make up for a shit ton of lost time,” Qrow says, sliding his arms around Ozpin's waist, and it takes every ounce of control for Ozpin not to melt against him. “Do you have any idea how long I've been wanting to kiss your dumb face?”

“It can't have been too long. You found out about us today, and you seem to have spent a good part of the time resisting the urge to throttle me.”

Qrow stares as if he's actually considering throttling Ozpin _now_. “It really does take a crisis to get your attention, doesn't it? Oz, I've been trying to ask you out for _years._ ”

Today is a day for surprises, and all of them have left Ozpin with absolutely nothing to stand on. “Define 'years',” he says faintly.

“A really long-ass time.”

“So, before—before this—“

“ _Yes._ ”

“Oh.” Ozpin squirms a little against Qrow, still reeling from—from _everything_ — “I've also wanted to—um—“

“Yeah, I kinda got that already,” Qrow says, looking smug.

“Oh.” Ozpin blinks. “Does this mean you're not quitting?”

Qrow raises one eyebrow pointedly, looking up and down between them as they stand locked together and unwilling to let go. “Well, shit. What do you think?”

“I think I could do with a bit more convincing.”

And this time, Ozpin feels Qrow's gentle laughter in the kiss, and he has no choice but to melt after all.

 

-


End file.
